


Good Vibrations

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Masturbation, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7185044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, normal, <i>sane</i> human beings don’t just randomly buy their co-workers <i>vibrators</i>.”</p><p>“It wasn’t random. And I’m sure you of all people know none of us can really call ourselves sane, anymore.”</p><p>Or, Laurel has a gift for Michaela.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Vibrations

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I may have already written like five fics about Laurel giving Michaela an orgasm. No, it never gets old. But I’ve also recently begun a long-ish multi-chap where they actually have a meaningful relationship and fall in love, so. Look out for that if PWP doesn’t do it for you ;P
> 
> Also this kind of just ignores the fact Levi ever existed and takes place around 2x03/2x04 ish.

Michaela hears Laurel before she sees her.

“I got something for you.”

Immediately, she jumps, spilling the pot of hot coffee in her hands over the rim of her mug and onto the counter, and swears under her breath, reaching for a paper towel to mop it up. It's a bit of an overreaction, maybe, but she's never liked being sneaked up on, and she's always been jumpy by nature, with hair trigger reflexes.

Okay – so, yes, admittedly she’s been a bit more jumpy these past few days. No, it most definitely does _not_ have anything to do with her humiliating confession a few days prior, and the fact that everywhere she goes now at work, she can’t help but feel everyone’s eyes on her all the time, judging her, _pitying_ her. It's bordering on slight paranoia, at this point.

Well, maybe more than slight.

And to top it all off? It’s the Thursday night before Valentine’s weekend, and she’s alone, single, perpetually orgasm-less and now even more painfully aware of it, and that is most certainly not helping her mood much, either. She’s starting to think she might be a bit pathetic.

Shaking the thought away, Michaela exhales sharply, cleans up her mess, and finally turns to Laurel, a hint of atypical weariness in her voice, when normally she zips through her day with all the enthusiasm of the Energizer fucking Bunny. The other girl stands before her relatively non-threateningly, clad in a blue sweater and plaid skirt with one arm outstretched, a little pink box topped with a pastel purple bow in her hand. As soon as she sees it, Michaela frowns, and doesn’t reach out to take it – because there’s something cautious in Laurel’s eyes, something careful. Something a bit like well-concealed pity, but warm; not judgmental.

Still, she bristles. “What?”

“Here,” Laurel tells her. “Take it.”

Michaela doesn’t move a muscle. “Okay, one? It’s not my birthday. And two? What the hell is this?”

Laurel raises her eyebrows in surprise. “You know, when most people get a gift, they just accept it and say ‘thank you.’” 

Again, she hesitates, before finally reaching out, taking hold of the box, and looking up at Laurel once more.

“…Why’re you getting me a present?” Laurel opens her mouth to answer, but Michaela cuts her off. “Because if this has _anything_ to do with what I told you morons Monday, I swear-”

“Just,” Laurel interrupts her, unflinching, “open it, Michaela.”

Normally Michaela would protest again, but she isn’t honestly sure she has it in her, today, and so she doesn’t. There’s something about the way Laurel says those words that makes her curiosity finally win out over her own common sense – because yeah, she’s wary of this so-called ‘gift,’ but she also can’t help but wonder what the hell it is that could be so important. So she gives in, easing the lid up slowly and pushing aside the thin layer of white tissue paper inside, as if expecting something to pop out and jump-scare her, even though she’s ninety percent sure Laurel would never do something so juvenile.

But then she sees what’s inside, and realizes quickly that she can deduce absolutely goddamn nothing about Laurel’s motives for _this_.

Or anything. Ever again.

“Oh my God,” she blurts out, mouth dropping open. “Oh my _God_. Y-you… This is a… What the _hell,_ Laurel?”

It’s a vibrator. A small pink bullet, resting there innocuously in the middle of the tissue paper. The sight of it startles Michaela so much that she forgets how to speak for a moment and almost drops it, dumbstruck by the sight. And – oh God, what the hell is this? _Why is Laurel giving her this_?

“It’s a vibrator,” the other girl says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Don’t act so scandalized, okay? This isn’t high school.”

“Shh!” Michaela shushes her, glancing around the kitchen hastily to ensure Connor or Asher hasn’t crept up behind them to witness this not-so-surreptitious sex toy gift exchange. “I – don’t say that word so loudly! I… What is… Why? _Why_ are you giving me this?”

“To help. With the whole… orgasm thing.”

Michaela tenses. She’s blushing so much that her face feels like it’s about to combust into flames at any second. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other awkwardly and tries to calm down, but she’s not having much success – not as long as the toy is staring her right in the face from its box. Quickly, she shuts the lid and swallows hard, shaking her head.

“Why?” she asks again, because it’s all she can think to ask. _Why_? Her life has definitely taken a turn for the bizarre since starting law school, but this… This is a step too far.

Laurel just folds her arms, unflappable as ever.

“Because. I don’t think it’s fair you’ve never had an orgasm; every woman should. And that’ll help. I mean, have you seriously never owned one before?”

“Of course not!”

She says it like it’s the weirdest, most foreign idea in the world, because… well, to her, it is. Owning a sex toy had never been something she’d even considered for a second. Hell, just exploring her own pleasure had never been something she’d considered, either. Where she’d come from, grown up… No one talked about sex, least of all girls, who were taught in Sunday school to close their legs tight and only open them for their husband on their wedding night, and even then it didn’t matter how it _felt_ , because sex was for one purpose and one purpose only: making babies.

Pleasure had been shameful, bad, guilty. That’s what she feels now: shame, and she can’t help it. That innate response, still sort of ingrained in her mind.

“You know,” she bites out. “Normal, _sane_ human beings don’t just randomly buy their co-workers _vibrators_.”

“It wasn’t random. And I’m sure you of all people know none of us can really call ourselves sane, anymore.”

“I… I don’t want this,” she snaps, and holds the package back out to her. “Here.”

But Laurel just shakes her head. “No.”

Michaela gawks at her. “Excuse me?”

“No,” she repeats. “I won’t take it back. I think you need to have it, for your own good.”

“A-and who do you think you are that you get to tell me what's for my own good?”

“A friend,” is Laurel’s simple answer. “You'll thank me later. Just trust me.”

With that Laurel leaves her, standing alone in the kitchen and gaping dumbly.   

 

-

 

Michaela doesn’t use it.

She won’t use that… _thing_. She stashes it away in one of her dresser drawers underneath a pile of old t-shirts as soon as she gets home, hoping that if it’s out of sight, it’ll be out of mind – but that does no good, because no matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop thinking about it. About the fact that she now has a vibrator in her possession. Courtesy of Laurel Castillo.

Oh God, she’s still freaking out about it. She can’t look at Laurel at all the next day at work, for fear that if she does, everyone will somehow know her dirty little secret. That’s the last thing she needs: Connor or Asher mocking her about her new electronic boyfriend-substitute.

She doesn’t use it. Tries not to think about it, as Friday passes, and Saturday, Valentine’s Day, arrives. Yet every time she looks over at her dresser, she finds her eyes drawn to the bottom drawer, and she flushes, and remembers what’s stowed away there. A few times she considers throwing it out, and once she even takes the box out to do so, but she never gets any further before she just buries it sheepishly underneath her clothes again, unable to throw it out but equally unable to put it to good use.

If there's one thing she is, it's stubborn. And so, stubbornly, she holds out.

She spends Valentine’s morning and afternoon alone, studying and trying to convince herself that she’s not lonely – but it’s her first Valentine’s without Aiden, and she’s not going to pretend she doesn’t miss him, or just… companionship, in general. That, coupled with the existence of this damn vibrator, only serves to make her feel even lonelier, and oddly horny, and confused. But she is _not_ going to use the vibrator to solve any of those problems tonight. Definitely not.

She’s Michaela Pratt. She’s not pathetic. She’ll be independent. She’ll _own_ her lack-of-orgasm lifestyle. It's a life choice. Like being a nudist, kind of.

She can't help but get the sense that most nudists probably have orgasms aplenty, though.

So the day goes on, and her curiosity grows, and her resolve starts wearing thin. And so, finally, after the sun goes down and every other couple in the world is probably climbing into bed together for some Valentine’s lovemaking, Michaela gives in, strips down to her matching pink bra and panties, opens the drawer, dims her lights, pulls out the vibe, and makes her way over to her bed with it.

It buzzes when she turns it on its lowest setting; a quiet, gentle hum, nothing huge or powerful. Taking a seat on the bed, Michaela gnaws on her lower lip and presses one finger against the toy, testing the waters, seeing how it feels against her skin, unsure exactly what to do or where to start. For a second she almost chickens out and switches it off entirely, but instead she just swallows, thinks for a moment, then lays back against her pillows and spreads her legs. She doesn’t press it against herself directly, not at first. Instead she guides the vibe over her clit with her panties still on, and gasps as soon as she does, reaching back to grab onto a pillow behind her.

The shame, the uncertainty – it all fades away into the background after she feels the first gentle buzz between her legs, the indirect stimulation enough to intrigue her, leave her wanting more. Growing bolder, she turns it up two settings, shifts the damp crotch of her panties to the side, and slowly, tentatively, presses it down on her clit. As soon as it makes contact with the sensitive little bundle of nerve endings, a high-pitched gasp escapes her, her body awakening with a start as if coming out of an ages-long slumber, and she seems to tingle all over, her stomach twisting inside her. It takes a bit of moving it around to find the spot that feels the best, tracing it up and down, on her clit, and then lower, to her folds, feeling herself grow wetter by the second, the buzzing a soft, gentle sensation; enough to make blood rush down between her legs, warm her up.

And – oh, yeah, this… _This_ is nice.

So, next, Michaela figures she needs some kind of fantasy. Some hot, imaginary scenario, between her and… Who? Not Aiden. _Definitely_ not Aiden. And not anyone she knows in real life, either, because that would just make things awkward. Maybe someone famous.

Zayn. Or – no, Channing Tatum. No, on second thought, that’s not doing anything for her. What about… Idris Elba? Yeah, her and Idris Elba in a passionate embrace, on a bed, on silk sheets, with him on top, kissing her neck, murmuring her name, _Michaela, Michaela_ , over and over, before arranging her on her hands and knees and-

No. _Dammit._ That’s not working either. It all seems too contrived, and she doesn’t have that great of an imagination, either. So she switches off the vibrator and draws it up from between her legs, staring at the disappointing little thing with contempt.

Screw this. And screw Laurel for pushing this whole vibrator thing on her, like she’d known what was best for her, like she was some all-knowing, self-important sex guru eager to dispense her wisdom to novices at every opportunity. Screw Laurel.

… Wait.

 _Screw Laurel_.

Maybe… maybe that could work.

It’s crazy, and pervy on about ten different levels, but she lies back again nonetheless, switches the vibe on, closes her eyes, and lets her mind wander. Laurel, with her dark hair and entrancing blue-grey eyes, and long legs and round breasts. Laurel, Laurel… God, what the hell is it about Laurel that gets her so ridiculously _hot_? It’s not like she’s ever really thought about Laurel in _that way_ before, but the attraction, the thoughts – they hit her like a punch in the gut, making her toes curl. It all seems so clear, as she starts to play the fantasy in her mind like a movie from frame one.

Laurel’s lips, soft on hers; almost impossibly soft, nourished by the all-natural lip balm Michaela has watched her apply on more than one occasion at work, rubbing her lips together in the most tantalizing way. She’d always caught herself inexplicably mesmerized by the sight, the way Laurel had prolonged it, pursing her lips like she somehow knew she was watching. She tastes like strawberry too, like the lollipops she seems to be eternally sucking on at work, swirling her tongue around, licking those full, pink, luscious lips. The sugar coats her lips in the most delectable way; she can almost taste it, right here and now, even though she hasn’t quite established in her mind where they are. A bedroom, probably. A bedroom, alone, with just the two of them, and before she can even blink Laurel’s shirt and bra are gone, and her bare, pert little breasts are pressing up against Michaela’s, and-

 _Oh_ yeah. That’s really doing something for her now.

She squirms, gasping a little when the vibe seems to shift into _exactly_ the right spot at exactly the right moment. She can feel the pressure building – but no, no. Not yet.

She wants to make this last.

They’re on the bed, then. She’s lying back, legs spread, naked, every inch of her body on display for Laurel’s hungry eyes, and she’s never felt so naked, and she’s never felt so naughty and bad and so _good_. Laurel’s kissing her way down her stomach, pausing to suck and lick languidly at her nipples. Her whole body seems to throb in time with her heartbeat, blood pumping loudly in her ears as Laurel descends, and gazes up at her now and then with mischief in her eyes. She isn’t speaking; Michaela doesn’t know what she would say – though she imagines, briefly, Laurel saying something filthy to her in Spanish, and God. _God_. It’s so hot she almost can’t stand it. It takes a few more agonizing seconds, but finally Laurel reaches her destination: the hot, delicate, throbbing region between her legs, and goes to work on her.

 _Really_ goes to work.

True, she’s never been eaten out before, not even by a guy, but just imagining what Laurel’s lips would feel like there – and _fuck_ , what her soft, dark curls would feel like between her thighs, the way she could grab them… It’s heaven. Her wet, nimble tongue flutters deliciously against her clit, licks a circle around her cunt, lapping up every drop of her like honey, but not going quite fast enough to make her come. And so she leaves her close, just teasing with her tongue, then her fingers, then her fingers _and_ her tongue, until-

With a soft cry, Michaela comes. Comes to the thought of Laurel fucking her with her mouth, licking her, moaning against her folds. It all makes her unravel, and the vibe hits exactly the right spot at precisely the right moment, buzzing away cheerfully. The pressure uncoils, and burns between her legs like a soft, smoldering flame – nothing mind-blowing or earth-shattering, maybe, but good. Still good. Still better than _Aiden_ had ever done for her.

And then, surprisingly quickly, she comes down. And the moment Michaela does, and sits up, and realizes what she’s just done, and _who_ she’s just fantasized about…

Shit. She may have just flipped a switch she can never un-flip.

 

\--

 

It’s Monday when Laurel corners her again, this time on the couch in the living room while everyone else is out chasing down witnesses for their case, and they’ve been relegated to paperwork duty. She’s been not-so-subtly avoiding her all day, and she’s pretty sure Laurel is starting to pick up on the fact, especially after the other girl had tried to strike up a conversation in the morning at the coffee pot, and in response Michaela had very smoothly crammed half a blueberry muffin into her mouth and scurried away, muttering some unintelligible excuse through her mouthful of food.

“So,” she begins. She takes a seat beside Michaela, prompting the other girl to look up from the file in her lap and flush immediately when she sees her. “Did you try it?”

 _Did she try it?_ The question flusters her so much that she can’t help but squirm in her seat. Yes, she’d tried it. That night. Yesterday afternoon. Yesterday night. She’d drained the batteries twice, and she’s starting to have terrifying visions of herself appearing on some trashy TLC reality show with _‘Help, I’m addicted to my vibrator’_ stamped across her picture.    

And also? _‘Help, I’m suddenly attracted to Laurel Castillo and having an existential crisis because of it.’_

Michaela glances around furtively, eyes widening. “We can’t talk about this here!”

“Why not?” Laurel furrows her brow. “Everybody’s out. So. Did you?”

“You know – why the _hell_ do you care so much?”

Laurel blinks. “Because. Like I said, it’s not fair you’ve never been able to have an orgasm. And maybe it’d help you loosen up some.”

Michaela is sure she’s glowing bright red, by now. She knows Laurel’s right; she’s been sleeping better, and she’s more relaxed, like every tendon and muscle inside her has been uncoiled and wrung out. She feels good – really _damn_ good, but there’s no way she’s about to admit that to Laurel, the newfound subject of her sexual fantasies. Who is a girl. And Michaela is not _gay_. She’s not a lesbian. No way, no how. She’s one hundred percent into guys, always has been and always will be.

Yes, she is. Straight as an arrow. Straight as a line. Straight as… every white male country singer she’s ever heard on the radio, ever. This whole Laurel thing is some weird fluke, some genetic anomaly, and sooner or later she’ll be able to move on and forget the whole thing.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she hisses. “Worry about your own damn orgasms.”

Laurel looks amused. “Believe me, I _do_. But, I’m also worried about yours. So have you used it yet or not?”

“ _No_ , I haven’t used it!” Michaela lies through her teeth without really thinking, ashamed to admit out loud, for some reason, that she had.

Laurel looks genuinely baffled. “Why not?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Do you know how?” Laurel presses, a bit hesitant. “’Cause… it’s not hard to learn-”

“This conversation is over,” Michaela tries to dismiss her, peering back down at her case file.

“But… why are you so ashamed?” Laurel asks. “You don’t have to be.”

“Why am I ashamed?” Michaela scoffs. “I’m a pastor’s daughter from the deep South. They taught us…” She drifts off, shaking her head and softening her tone. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. But let’s just say orgasms aren’t something I’m used to discussing. And definitely _not sex toys_.”

“Well, get used to it,” Laurel says, rising to her feet with sudden determination and grabbing her coat. “I’m coming over tomorrow tonight. I’m gonna make it my mission to get you to bust a nut if it kills me.”

Michaela grimaces. “Oh, God, _please_ do not call it that. And… don’t. Laurel, I’m serious, we’re not even frien-”

The sound of the front door closing behind Laurel cuts her off before she can finish that sentence. Michaela knows she’s screwed the instant she hears it. Well – not literally. Not lately.

She wouldn’t mind Laurel changing that, though. And the thought is scaring the hell out of her almost as much as it’s turning her on.

 

\--

 

True to her word, Laurel shows up at her door the next night at ten o’ clock sharp, arms full of… things. Supplies.

Some part of Michaela had been hoping she was joking about coming over to help her, but she should know better than to believe that Laurel would give up on her charitable-orgasm-mission so easily. She half-wants to laugh; Laurel _could_ make an actual charity out of this. Donating orgasms for a good cause to women in need.

Or… _giving_ orgasms, to women in need. Which Michaela would like to believe _she_ is.

She makes herself stop that train of thought before it can venture further. She feels like a horny teenager around Laurel, ever since Vibratorgate – as she’s decided to codename that particular sexual awakening. It’s pathetic. But for some reason, even though she knows it would probably be for her own good, she can’t make herself close the door in Laurel’s face; something compels her to step aside and let her in, something located dangerously low in her belly, and slithering inexorably lower down between her legs.

Something Michaela knows the name of. Something Michaela is going to _ignore_.

“So,” Laurel announces, striding in with a rush of cold air following her and shrugging off her coat. “I got you some stuff.”

“More presents?” Michaela frowns. She’s clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants and wishing, suddenly, that she’d dressed up more for this. Still, she tries to sound unenthused, and it works fairly well, because Laurel gives her one of her trademark, narrow-eyed Looks.

“Some… self-pleasure essentials. Look.”

Laurel drops the armful of items down onto her kitchen table, and then begins holding them up one by one, explaining her reasoning. Michaela half-expects her to have brought some kind of porn – after the vibrator debacle, she wouldn’t put anything past Laurel – but thankfully the pile of gifts appears to be erotica-free. Which is good. She’s honestly not sure she could handle Laurel picking out porn for her.

“Okay, so. A scented candle. Vanilla. Helps set the mood.”

“I don’t like how vanilla smells,” Michaela lies, trying to be as difficult as she can, in the hopes that – well, she doesn’t know. In the hopes that Laurel will give up and go home, and prevent her from doing anything she’ll regret later, maybe.

Laurel stops. Gives her another, more pointed _Look_. Then, continues.

“Wine,” she holds up a bottle of red that looks old and expensive. “To help you relax. Get rid of your inhibitions.”

“I prefer white,” Michaela sneers, sickeningly sweetly. 

Laurel ignores that, and holds up a little clear bag with colorful pastel spheres inside it, tied neatly at the top with a polka-dot bow.

“Bath bombs. For relaxing in the tub, while doing… You know. Other things.”

“I have sensitive skin.”

Laurel starts looking a bit exasperated, but holds up the last item nonetheless; a CD, which Michaela hasn’t seen in ages. She didn’t even know people still _used_ CD’s.

“Here. Boyz II Men’s greatest hits. It’s a good soundtrack for this kind of thing. Slow. Sexy. My personal favorite is ‘I’ll Make Love to You.’”

“Really?” Michaela raises an immaculately plucked eyebrow. “You’re suggesting I get off to cheesy nineties R&B?”

“You have a better idea of what you wanna get off to?”

_Yes. Thoughts of you._

Michaela squirms as the thought worms it way into her head faster than she can push it out, and clears her throat, avoiding Laurel’s eyes in a way she hopes isn’t obvious but knows probably _is_. Luckily, for her sake, Laurel seems to interpret it as bashfulness, and she sighs, a look of understanding bleeding into her eyes.

“Look,” she says, taking a few steps toward her, a bit too close for comfort. “If this is too much, and you want me to stop, I’ll stop. I just… want you to be comfortable, is all. Happy. Embracing your sexuality is important.”

Oh, God. Laurel wants her to be happy. Laurel wants her to _embrace her sexuality_. Laurel looks so earnest, her blue-grey eyes soft, tender, so tender it might legitimately kill her. Laurel’s never looked better either, Michaela’s convinced; dressed in a form-fitting grey dress from work that she hadn’t been able to stop eyeing all day. She doesn’t know how she’s never noticed, before, noticed _her_. Laurel has always flown under the radar, gone unnoticed. The quiet one.

But some part of Michaela, buried deep since she was young and stomped down every time it’d tried to rear its ugly head, had always noticed her. The realization makes her dizzy with a surging combination of panic and arousal, the telltale dampness between her legs brushing her panties when she shifts her weight from one leg to another. That’s enough to finally make her snap out of her trancelike state, and so she puts her defensiveness on autopilot, turning away from Laurel.

“ _I’m_ fine,” she asserts, not very convincingly, giving a half-laugh, half-scoff. “You know, not everything has to be about sex! Our society is so… so _sex-centric_ – and really? It’s not even that fantastic. And honestly, I don’t think whether or not I’m having orgasms is anyone’s concern but my own.”

“Well.” Laurel raises her eyebrows in surprise, then nods. “I get it, then. I’ll be going. And… you can keep the wine. But give me back the CD when you’re done with it. I like that one.”

Laurel goes for the door, and the instant she sees she’s leaving, leaving _her_ , Michaela’s stupid heart does an odd sort of twinging flip-flop in her chest, like it wants to break out of her ribs and follow, like it doesn’t want her to go. Michaela doesn’t, either, if she’s being honest, and so before she can think twice she calls out after Laurel, sounding a bit too desperate for her own good.

“Wait.”

Laurel turns, straight-faced, obviously more than a little miffed. Michaela sighs, shaking her head.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t mean to lash out. I know you’re just trying to help. And I appreciate it, but _God_ , sometimes, you’re just so nosy-”

“Really? You stopped me so you could keep yelling at me?”

“Y-you know what?” Michaela raises her voice, blurting out before she can think, “If you’re so damn worried about me having an orgasm, why don’t you just do it yourself?”

A moment of silence passes, during which Michaela realizes what she’s just said and flushes about a million and one different shades of red.

Oh, God.

_OhGodohGodohGodohGod._

That was a Freudian slip for the ages, and she’d sounded far too serious to play it off as a joke. Laurel notices, and latches onto the words instantly, taking one step towards her, then two, then three, until she’s dangerously close, so close she thinks she can count Laurel’s eyelashes and see each individual fleck of grey in her eyes, which glint in the dim light with sudden determination, her pupils huge and black and full of want.

Shit. Shit shit shit. She wants to take the words back, tell her she hadn’t meant them.

She can’t. She _had_.

“Is that what you want?” Laurel asks, and she sounds breathless, just as breathless as Michaela feels. “Me to do it myself?”

“I – _no_ ,” Michaela scoffs, trying to act casual, when really she’s sweating bullets, and she can feel a single droplet of that sweat racing down her spine, making her shiver. “O-of course not, that’s not what I meant-”

Laurel looks skeptical, tilting her head to one side. “Then… what did you mean?”

“I didn’t…” Her brain is short-circuiting, misfiring, like a broken fuse box. She can’t think coherent thoughts, let alone put together coherent sentences, and _fuck_ , the thermostat in her apartment must be broken, because it feels like it’s shot up twenty degrees with Laurel in such close proximity. “I-”

“Because I would. If you wanted.”

Laurel doesn’t even hesitate for a second to offer herself up. Laurel doesn’t look the least bit ashamed, either; she’s undaunted, unabashed, confronting sex head-on, with such honesty and fearlessness that it makes Michaela squirm and turns her on and makes her envious – all at the same time. Michaela thinks, for a moment, that this seems to be something Laurel has contemplated before, having sex with her, so often that it’s not a foreign concept at all. It seems-

Oh.

 _Oh_.

The vibrator. The very, very, _very_ avid concern about her orgasms. The other presents. The fact that Laurel had basically become her _sugar mama_.

Laurel _wants to have sex_ with her.

Somehow she’d mistaken the signs as her being a concerned friend – but really, what the _fuck_ kind of normal concerned friend buys her friend a vibrator and then devotes her every waking moment to making sure she achieves orgasm? Someone who definitely does _not_ want to just be a friend, Michaela realizes, and she gapes. Has this been part of Laurel’s elaborate plan to get her to sleep with her all along?

Is this her… _evil scheme_?

Because it’d worked. Like a charm. And her body is burning, pussy throbbing, panties dampened, heartbeat traveling straight to her clit – and she realizes, just then, that she’d been unknowingly seduced by _Laurel fucking Castillo_. And she'd played right into her hands. And she’s shocked by how little she cares, how all she can think about is Laurel – specifically, Laurel’s little pink mouth and lithe tapered fingers, and what they would feel like on her, _in_ her.

“Who says…” Michaela finally manages to choke out. “Who says I want that?”

Laurel inches closer yet. Her lips are so close that Michaela moves forward out of instinct to kiss her, but Laurel _doesn’t_ kiss her; she just scans her face, up and down, analyzing the situation and gauging her reaction.

“Tell me to leave. Tell me… you don’t want me to help,” she undertones, voice low and throaty in a way that makes Michaela positively _drip_. “And I won’t. I’ll go.”

Oh, fuck. _Fucking fuck_. Michaela can’t tell her that. She can’t even come close to remotely forming the words; she’s been rendered mute by want, so startled and unsure of it all that, for a moment, she can’t move a muscle. Because this is Laurel. Laurel Castillo. And Michaela Pratt may be complicit in several murders and other sundry felonies, but she likes to think she still has a relatively sound idea of right and wrong – and this would be wrong. _So_ wrong. Historically, cataclysmically, monumentally _wrong_. Something they’ll write about in the history books as being disastrously _wrong_ – if they wrote history books documenting lesbian sex.

She kisses Laurel, first. It stops feeling _wrong_ the second she does.

That’s her answer. No words, no breathless affirmations; just _Yes_ in the form of her lips on Laurel’s, and they meld together so seamlessly that Michaela doesn’t even have to try to find a rhythm with her. The kiss is… sweet. That’s all Michaela can describe it as: sweet, not overpowering, not harsh, not sloppy, with the right about of grazing teeth and tongue and roaming hands. Michaela has been kissed hard one too many times in her life, kissed until her lips were swollen and bruised and aching, and having something softer… She almost can’t believe how weak it makes her, a full-bodied shudder running through her from head to toe.

Somehow, with a mind of its own, her hand makes its way into Laurel’s soft strands of hair, anchoring itself there as the other girl urges her backwards and pushes her up against the wall just inside the door. She makes a soft sound of surprise against Laurel’s mouth when her back hits the wall, prompting Laurel to pull away and meet her eyes. Her lips are damp from their kiss, and Michaela can see the saliva glistening in the moonlight, can see the way her hair is mussed, the way her mouth hangs open slightly, jaw slackened.

“We can’t do this,” Michaela manages to say, shaking her head but not making the slightest attempt to move away. “You and… Frank-”

“We have an understanding,” Laurel tells her, dead-serious. “For… contingencies, like this.”

Michaela exhales sharply. Of course they do.

“I’m not a lesbian. I-I’m _not_ -”

“Never said you were,” the other girl replies easily. “Now, are you done trying to talk yourself out of this, or do you need another minute?”

Michaela is silent, for a moment. Then, she nods, letting Laurel’s scent wash over her – some kind of perfume, very subtle, earthy, expensive but not overpowering. She takes a look up and down Laurel’s body, to her slim, sinewy arms and gentle curves of her hips underneath her dress, and her lips, God, her lips… Desire slams into her like a brick wall, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“I want you,” Michaela declares. “I do. And I…”

“You what?”

Michaela lowers her eyes, suddenly humiliated and wondering why she’d ever spoken in the first place. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

Laurel backs off slightly, patient, understanding. Her voice is almost a coo, when she speaks, like she’s coaxing a scared animal. “What is it?”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Michaela whimpers, looking everywhere possible but in Laurel’s eyes. “I thought about it, okay? Imagined it. _You_. While I was… You know. With the… vibrator.”

“But… you said you didn’t use it.”

Michaela doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know what to say, and she settles on lowering her eyes, the feeling of shame solidifying inside her stomach like a fat rock, before Laurel places a hand on her chin and urges it back up.  

“You thought of me?” she breathes. Hypnotized, shaky, all Michaela can do is nod. “What’d you… imagine me doing?”

“I can’t-” she sputters. “I can’t _say_ it.”

“Yes you can,” she urges, and suddenly Laurel’s lips are on her neck, wet and impossibly hot, sucking her skin into her mouth and humming against it. Her hands drop down to her waist, fingertips dancing around the hem of her t-shirt and brushing her bare stomach beneath. “Tell me. And I’ll do it.”

It sounds like a promise. The irrational part of Michaela’s brain thinks that sounds like a threat too, because, somehow, Laurel looks just as predatory right then as she does tender. She still has the chance to bolt, she knows. She could. _Should_. But she knows she’s lying to herself; she was lost the instant she kissed Laurel, and entertaining the notion that she could somehow, by some miracle, find the willpower to break away now is a fallacy.

She trembles, sucking in a shaky breath. “You were… g-going down on me, okay? That’s what you were doing. It was… it was stupid, I know, and – _ah_.”

Laurel’s thigh is between her legs, then, pinning her back lightly against the wall. She grinds down on it instinctively as if simultaneously trying to get away and get closer, cursing herself when she feels the undeniable wetness seeping through her sweatpants, maybe even forming a spot on Laurel’s thigh, her body betraying just how much she wants this. Laurel seems to notice, and looks pleased, but the look gives way to something else quickly – contemplation. She draws back slightly, dropping her leg down and elicit a disappointed mewl from Michaela, before something clicks behind her eyes, like the teeth of a gear sliding into place.

“Bedroom, then,” is all she says, finally. “You’re not gonna be able to stay standing if I do that here.”

The statement is equally as pragmatic as it is hot as hell, so hot it makes Michaela’s skin prickle. Her body simultaneously numb and violently awake, she leads Laurel down the hallway – and as soon as she steps over the threshold, Laurel is upon her, kissing her so deep that it’s like she wants to consume her, hands sliding down her sides, grasping at her shirt, tugging it up and off. Off go Laurel’s leather jacket and her shoes, and Michaela’s sweatpants, until she’s nearly naked and Laurel still has a frustrating amount of clothing covering her.

Everything happens in flashes, so fast it all feels surreal. Laurel takes a seat at the end of the bed and tugs her forward into her lap, freeing one breast from her bra and closing her lips around it, and it’s so intimate, so sudden; they’d gone from friendly conversation to Laurel sucking on her nipples in all of 0.5 seconds, and as much as her body is liking the hell out of that, part of Michaela can’t help but want it all to slow down.

“Was – ah,” she gasps, her eyelids fluttering shut. It’s hard to see in the dim light of the bedroom, illuminated only by the faintest rays of moonlight puddling on her carpet, but she can see Laurel’s eyes flick up to look at her when she opens her mouth. “Was… this part of your plan all along? Buy me a vibrator and… seduce me?”

“Well,” Laurel chuckles, turning her around, urging her back, and lying her down all in one swift motion. “That _is_ part of the evil bisexual agenda, if you didn’t know. Lure all straight girls over to the dark side with orgasms.”

Michaela can’t help but snort at that. _Come to the dark side. We have orgasms._

Finally, though, she has a word for it, for _Laurel_ : bisexual. She wonders if she’s always known, _how_ she’s always known, wonders if Frank knows – and figures, because of this whole agreement they have apparently worked out when it comes to banging other people, that he probably does. She wonders about a lot of things, but every rational thought in her head shrivels up and dies the instant Laurel kneels at the end of the bed and reaches up to tug her down by the hips, splaying her legs open wide, laying out every inch of her body to her – save for the area covered by her panties and bra, which, for some godforsaken reason Michaela can’t discern, are _still on_. She’s panting, a bit from the suddenness of it all, a bit because Laurel’s silence is unnerving as her eyes wander her body, full of hunger, full of… fascination. She can feel them on her almost like she’s being touched, and she shifts, suddenly self-conscious to be stared at so intently.

“God, Michaela…” she finally settles on saying, shaking her head. “It’s such a fucking _crime_ no one’s ever made you come.”

A crime. Michaela wouldn’t call it that. A disappointment, yeah. A damn crying shame. Not something as drastic as a _crime_ – but when her eyes meet Laurel’s, she can tell the other girl believes it, one hundred percent, no questions asked.

Michaela opens her mouth, trying to formulate some response to that, but Laurel is crawling back on top of her before she can, kissing her sweetly, letting Michaela’s curious hands roam over her still-clothed back, the firmness of her ass, everywhere. She whimpers, whines, her panties well on their way to soaked-through by now, the pink lace sullied and filthy. Her body screams to be touched, every bone and muscle and tendon humming in a silent chorus of want. She thinks she might go mad if Laurel drags this out much longer. Thinks she already _is_.

“I want to-” Michaela stops herself, swallowing hard. “I… this is… crazy, oh my God, we-”

“Relax,” Laurel pants, hot in her ear like steam. “Lay back. Let me do this for you.”

So she does, watching, mesmerized, as Laurel slinks back down to the end of the bed like a feline and kneels there.

And she doesn’t waste time after that, not one single second. She goes to town on her immediately, relentlessly, all but ripping her panties off with her teeth like a wild animal and tossing them away, and leaning in for a taste of her.   

Her whole body freezes for a moment when she does, her mouth dropping open in a silent moan as her hands fly down to grasp Laurel’s hair, bunching the dark strands up into her fists. Michaela half-feels like her mind is detached, like she’s having an out-of-body experience, watching herself get eaten out from a million miles away, all spread legs and soaked cunt and immodest, downright humiliating moans. Her hips stutter forward, her body awash in sensation: Laurel’s mouth, wet and so ridiculously scalding hot; her tongue, quick, smooth, and wicked, pressing flat against her clit then dipping down inside as she laps her up, drinks her down, moaning softly. The vibrations carry onto her clit and make Michaela twitch, her other hand grappling beside her for the sheets, for something, anything to hold onto.

“Fuck,” the words bursts out of her mouth, high and airy. “Fuck – Laurel, ohGod, don’t stop, _pleaseplease_ -”

She’s wet. Soaked. She isn’t sure exactly how much, but she has the sense that she’s dripping down onto her sheets, and when she finally manages to raise her head she can see Laurel’s jaw glistening with her slick too, spilling down the sides of her mouth like she can’t drink her down fast enough. She’s never seen anything as hot as that in her entire life: Laurel kneeling before her, eating her out like she’s her last meal, eyes hazy, devoted so entirely to her pleasure that she seems blind to the rest of the world.

She’s done this before – that much is clear to Michaela. She can read her body like a book; when her hips buck into the heat of her mouth she speeds up, when she makes a particular kind of moan – low and shuddering, signaling that it’s _too much, too stimulating_ – she slows down, retreating ever so slightly. It’s finessed, the way she plays her body. Masterful. Sometimes she ghosts her teeth across her clit to make her jump, sometimes she sucks her clit into her mouth and probes inside her folds with two fingers, sometimes she licks a circle around her cunt and then draws back, making a show of wiping her mouth off with the back of her hand and giving Michaela a positively feral grin that almost fucking does her in.  

Michaela has never come quickly, or easily – or, well, _ever_. Not counting her vibrator-aided orgasms, she’s never come _ever_ , but the point is she knows she doesn’t come quick, or easy. It’s been a while now – she doesn’t know how long, a few minutes, maybe ten – and she’s still not there yet, still building at that frustratingly sluggish pace. And she thinks about trying to force it, force her body into giving in somehow, bending to her will – or faking it. She’s gotten so adept at faking it over the years that Laurel probably wouldn’t be able to tell if she did.

But no.

She feels like being selfish, for once in her life. She wants it. The real thing. That elusive Big O. Laurel sure as hell didn’t go to all this trouble to give her a fake orgasm tonight, and so she relaxes, lies back, lets that delicious pressure build greater and greater, inching its way towards its peak, no matter how long it takes. For her part, Laurel doesn’t seem to mind at all; she looks so unbelievably aroused by it all that she could kneel there for centuries, and now and then Michaela thinks she can see her shifting on her knees, reaching a hand down to slip between her own thighs and stroke herself – and _fuck_ , that thought is so unbelievably hot she almost expires right that instant, right on that bed. Cause of death: Laurel Castillo.

Michaela doesn’t think that sounds like such a bad way to go.

“Laurel!” she cries her name, voice reedy and thin and brimming with desperation. “L – ah, fuck, this… _I,_ God-”

Laurel draws back, kissing the inside of her thigh and listening to Michaela’s half-hysterical whine of disapproval. She can feel the trail of her wetness Laurel’s lips leave behind, can feel it cooling on her skin, and she quivers, one hand flying to her breast out of instinct, kneading it, as she writhes, bucks, squirms. She’s not used to being at anyone’s mercy; normally she can’t _stand_ it, and it’s almost as arousing as it is frustrating, and Michaela gives a groan that’s not very sexy at all.

Because she’s close. She’s gotten close to coming, before, but never like this. Never so much that it blinded her, left her able only to feel the ball of pleasure swelling and clenching between her legs, on the brink of unraveling with just the right touch. Never so much that it stole the words off her tongue, made her babble like an infant, moan like a slut. Her father’s words come back to her, briefly. _Slut. Whore._ That’s what she is. This is what this makes her, all spread-eagled and begging to come.

And Michaela Pratt has, in all her twenty-five years of living, never given _less_ of a fuck about anything.  

“I want you to know what it’s like…” Laurel murmurs against her thigh, moaning quietly. She’s touching herself; Michaela can tell by the way her eyelids flutter shut, the steady up and down motions of her arm. She peppers kisses up and down her folds, on her clit, on her shaven mound, drawing a desperate sound from Michaela that barely sounds human. “ _Oh God_ , I wanna make you come, Michaela.”

She’s heard that, before. That empty promise, that tired old line, countless times from Aiden. _I wanna make you come. I’ll make you come so hard._ It’d never sounded convincing, and she’d sure as hell never believed he really cared one way or another if she got off or not. But Laurel Castillo is on her knees right then, looking like nothing in the world matters more to her, like making her come is the sole purpose for her existence, with tenderness and desire and determination all at once in those eyes of hers. And Michaela’s toes are curling as she leans in, zeroing in on her engorged, throbbing little clit, and changing up the patterns of her tongue on it, going from figure-eight’s to what almost feels like letters; her name, maybe. She’s ruthless, her licking frenzied, making low hums and soft slurps every so often, and Michaela is gripping her hair so hard that she’s sure she’s about to rip a chunk of it out of her scalp, and-

Without warning, she comes. But _comes_ almost isn’t a powerful enough word.

Because it shatters her. Fucking _destroys_ her; undoes her, makes her shudder and shake to pieces. Her whole body tenses, muscles going taut for one blessed moment before they release and untwist, and she leaves orbit like a rocketship hurting towards the moon at the speed of light, careening wildly, so lost in that instant that all she can do is moan. Her hand works at her breast, almost frantic in its movements – and one look down at her body, legs splayed wide, looking immodest and wanton and fucking _sinful_ with Laurel’s mouth all over her cunt, is all it takes to make her come harder.

She has no idea how any benevolent, compassionate God could be against _this_. No goddamn clue.

It takes her a while to float back down from the cloud of ecstasy, from that higher plane of being, of pure bliss. Once she does Michaela gradually becomes aware of the sheets beneath her again, smooth and cold, and the sight of Laurel at the end of the bed, licking her lips as if to not waste even a single drop of her and wiping her mouth, breathing ragged.

“Good?” she asks, and Michaela’s laugh is almost maniacal.

“What… what kind of stupid question is that?” Michaela breathes, downright giddy. “Oh God, the vibrator couldn’t do _that_.”

Laurel is still wearing clothes, Michaela realizes. She had forgotten that she hadn’t taken them off, and the instant her mind snaps back into consciousness, she decides that _she wants them off._ She doesn’t lay there any longer, bask in the afterglow, relish the post-coital aftershocks; no sir, Michaela Pratt has always been a woman of action, and that’s not about to change now.

Because her mouth is watering like a starving woman. Pussy throbbing. She wants to taste her. _Needs_ to.

That’s the only thought in her head, as she all but grabs Laurel, drags her up onto the bed, unzips her dress, and lies her back on the pillows. _Taste her_. She yanks off that dress savagely, almost ripping the fabric in the process. Laurel laughs, breathlessly, when she does. Michaela doesn’t even crack a grin. _Taste her_. It’s instinctive. She doesn’t even have time to contemplate that she’s never done this before; somehow, it doesn’t matter. It’s like it’s programmed into her code, and she has no idea how her father had called this _unnatural_ when she’s never done something that felt more _natural_ before in her life.

 _Taste her._ Michaela tugs off her soaked panties, and Laurel is saying something – a joke, maybe – but she isn’t listening; her mind is on one track and one track only. _Taste her._ Fuck, she can _smell_ her: musky and heady unlike anything she’s ever smelled before, and Laurel’s mound is shaved smooth – probably for Frank, and if she was in the mood to dwell, she would dwell on that for a while, but she isn't, not tonight. Her folds are exposed, pink and glistening, her clit standing out large and swollen. Her juices are smeared on the insides of her thighs too, from touching herself before. 

 _Taste her. Taste her._ Finally, she does – and the instant Michaela does, her world catches fire.

She clambers up onto the bed next to Laurel, after. The other girl is breathless and flushed from head to toe, giggling and covering her loopy grin with one hand in the most adorable way. She hadn’t known what to do, not really. Something in her had taken over, some other girl, some primal beast, with a _very_ adept tongue.

And Laurel isn’t complaining. No siree. 

“So,” Laurel manages to choke out, glancing over at her. “Did that… live up to your expectations?”

Michaela props herself up on one elbow, leaning over her, seeking approval, like always.

“Did _I_?”

“ _God_ yes,” Laurel answers, licking her lips and sighing contently. “I can still taste you.”

“Mmm,” Michaela hums, narrowing her eyes. “So, tell me. Was this really your plan all along? The end goal? Getting me naked?”

Laurel winks. It makes her heart flutter. “Evil bisexual agenda, remember?”

She’s surprisingly okay with this, Michaela realizes. They both are. She’d expected it to be awkward, after. Tense – but it isn’t. In fact, she feels so lighthearted and free that she wants to run outside and yell _I finally had an orgasm!_ from the rooftops. But she’s also fairly certain that would get her arrested, and so she settles on laughing again, watching Laurel’s breasts rise and fall with each gentle breath, fascinated by it, by the curves of her body bathed in the silver moonlight.

Michaela doesn’t know what this is the start of – or if it’s even the start of _anything_. Most likely it is a colossal mistake, on too many levels to count. But if she had regrets she’s pretty sure she’d feel them by now, and so she reaches over into the top drawer of her nightstand, withdrawing the little pink vibe and holding it up so Laurel can see.

“I’m throwing this away,” she declares, and does just that for dramatic effect, hurling it into the trash can next to her with an unnecessary amount of force. “I won’t be needing it anymore.”

Laurel snickers, makes some snarky comment about her being very confident about that. Michaela doesn’t care; she just presses her lips onto Laurel’s again, her hands exploring her body, amazed by every curve and crevice and bump of the female anatomy and charting each one like an explorer, not knowing what this means, exactly, but knowing that she wants her. Knowing that this, whatever this is, is real, and _right_.

If she’s being honest, she’ll probably fish the vibrator out later; there’s no reason to let a perfectly good sex toy go to waste. But for now…

For now, Michaela has far better things to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://laurelcasfillo.tumblr.com/)!


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